


because i knew you'd be the one to catch me when i fall

by sungyeowl



Category: The Maze Runner (2014), The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: M/M, Tumblr Prompt, happens in the scorch, includes a lightning-struck-minho huehue, might be read as platonic or pre-slash also, whatever suits you
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-14
Updated: 2015-05-14
Packaged: 2018-03-30 12:49:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3937399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sungyeowl/pseuds/sungyeowl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><br/>Newt knows it’s going to be tough as soon as they learn about the whole you’re-being-thrown-into-the-sun-scorched-desert-run-for-your-lives deal, before they even step out of the bloody pitch-black corridor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	because i knew you'd be the one to catch me when i fall

**Author's Note:**

> I'M KIND OF BACK wow  
> it took me o long to write anything??? i am so sorry, but my thesis(es) writing is so time consuming  
> anyhow, i'm back with a prompted Minewt for you! it's kinda angsty but then iT GETS BETTER I PROMISE
> 
> alsoooo, it's not beta-ed

Newt knows it’s going to be tough as soon as they learn about the whole you’re-being-thrown-into-the-sun-scorched-desert-run-for-your-lives deal, before they even step out of the bloody pitch-black corridor.

Running through hardened sand with barely any food – or time, in that matter – to spare doesn’t sound like a very much appealing adventure even if both your legs are healthy and good to go.

Which, when it comes to Newt, obviously is _not_ the case.

It’s not so bad at first when they try to figure out how to actually move forward, huddled awkwardly under one and nursing the second sheet with supplies between themselves. The pace is mild and the rhythm is steady; the progress is not great but at least Newt can focus on the almost synchronized and melodic in the weirdest of ways sound of Gladers’ slightly panicked footsteps. Hitting the cracked ground, loud and familiar, and he counts the strides, willing his mind away from the overwhelming terror of the previous few days (or years, if he’s to be honest with himself) and away from the threat of a cramp creeping around in the lower part of his right thigh.

 

The more time passes the more weary they grow.

The steps stumble and deep, ragged pants from around the group can be heard every now and then. Newt smells sweat and sun-heated skin, and a distant odor of rotting buildings in the city ahead of them (and it seems – so, _so_ far away; and yet it’s not even their target, not their final destination. The mere thought freezes his insides and Newt has to stop thinking about it, because how in the bloody hell are they ever going to make it?). his knee goes numb in the knee, but Minho is a solid and reliable anchor at his side, pushing them forward – and not only with his practiced, physical strength of a former runner. The boy is already carrying most of the weight of their supplies, and Newt feels guilty, but cannot bring himself to offer – well, _anything_ , because he is already too weak, and straining his leg even more when Minho seems capable enough smells awfully like a prone death wish. The younger boys are already counting on their leader to get them more or less unharmed to the safe heaven, even if the task is already a failure (Newt tries not to think about Frankie, who’s already gone, and Winston, for whom there’s practically no chance to live through their mad race with half of his bloody skin missing from his face, and something knots in his stomach while he swallows back the gag reflex), if only to some extent. In any case, bothering Minho with a shitty messed up leg ain’t gonna do any good in their situation.

 

Newt’s mind is wiped clean of any thoughts because the only thing that rattles in his head is the animalistic instinct to survive. Sweat and grime from the journey mixed are flowing down his face, gluing his eyelashes together and piercing if they get into his eyes; his breathing is ragged and his lungs feel like they’re on fire with every deep breath of dense, disgusting air he inhales. His feet scramble on the ground, his legs wobbly and uneven, and so, so painful with every step Newt takes.

The roaring is overwhelming, piercing through his ears and getting into his mind. He’s almost blinded and almost deaf, both with the will to survive and with the fear.

He’s never seen anything like this storm – he didn’t even think it was possible for such things to happen in the reality, despite what WICKED claimed – and Newt curses the moment he thought he would be glad for a little bit of rain that would discharge the pre-storm tenseness that hovered in the desert air. There is no rain but the storm is wicked, cruel, and most definitely not what any of them expected.

The only thing Newt can do now is run, run, run for his life to the nearest building, where he hopes to find shelter from  the horrendous atmospheric phenomenon they were forced to witness. He tries to look around, tries to spot his friends (if they’re okay if they’re whole if they’re still there if they’re alive-), but there’s only so much he can make out in the swirl of sand and water; silhouettes, moving restlessly, sometimes stopped with a sudden scream or illuminated by a striking lightning.

By the time Newt sees another person lit on fire by the concentrated hit of electricity, he knows he cannot help, not right now, and decides to just run forward. The urge to look back and find Thomas or Minho, or Fry, or _whoever_ , is strong, very much so, but the reason wins. They were separated, and stopping isn’t going to help anyone. Newt swallows the guilt down and lets the scared animal scraping inside of him take over his body and lead him towards the hideout.

Newt spots Thomas who’s supporting Minho – and _fuck_ , Minho’s clothes are burnt and steaming, and he has been hit, Newt realizes and hurries to help Thomas. He and another Glader take the boy over and drag him inside, away from the insane hell.

His legs give out after they have put Minho down and Newt’s legs give out soon after. He lies on the floor, motionless and exhausted, and lets his eyes slip closed for a little while.

Someone counts the survivors but he cannot think about it right now, _especially_ not now. Newt allows himself to drift off for a little while because slumber is too overwhelming to fight off right now; through the remains of consciousness he hears other boys’ ragged breathing slowing down, deepening, and he knows he’s not the only one dozing off to sleep.

 

The sough of falling rain wakes Newt up some time later. He’s drowsy, head spinning and throat scratchy, his bad leg throbbing with piercing pain. The pure thought of moving is unthinkable, but Newt’s mind clears and he knows he’s got to do something; the thunderstorm calmed down and so have the Gladers, but the muffled, pained moans of Minho can be heard in the room, and that’s what has him moving.

Newt raises to his feet and shuffles blindly through the room, occasionally bumping into other boys lying on the floor.

“Hey,” he says quietly and squats down when he’s sure he has reached his friend. “Minho?”

“Yeah,” comes the whiny, powerless reply and Newt is hit by the lack of wit and sassiness, and it’s so scary that he reaches out quickly and seeks for Minho’s shoulders, which he grabs and pulls the man up as fast and as gentle as can.

“Let’s get ya outta here, man,” Newt mumbles and almost grunts out loud with the effort as he lifts the almost limp body and tries to steer Minho towards the smashed exit. The man doesn’t protest and doesn’t ask any questions. Newt is scared shitless.

The raindrops seem hard and bruising when they stumble out, but as the first droplets hit Newt’s heated skin, it’s like a wave of relief washed over him.

Minho chokes out a distressed moan at the sensation but perks up a little and moves faster, relieving Newt of some of his weight as they make their way farther from the building, so they’re not shielded by the remnants of walls and roofs.

They collapse to the ground in a disheveled heap, and it’s probably not wise to sit like that in the open in a city probably swarming with crazy, sick people, but the feeling of rain pouring over his body is too good – Newt doesn’t give a shite.

Minho sighs next to him and stretches, lying down and supporting his body on his elbows and Newt does the same, but not before he folds the leg of his pants up and bends his leg in the knee, allowing the rain to somehow soothe the throbbing.

They don’t move for a long time (or are those mere minutes? Newt’s not sure anymore), trying to rest and ease their minds, until Newt hears Minho say, “Thanks.”

“No problem,” he replies, throwing his head to the side to look at his friend. The exhaustion pretty much radiates off of Minho. “Ya look horrible, though.” And he does, really, with his clothes ripped, hair greasy and skin marked with post-lightning scars that trace not only the places where the fire licked at his skin, but also show a prominent web of veins under Minho’s skin. But he’s alive. Alive and overall pretty good, Newt thinks as he observes the smallest tug of the corner of Minho’s mouth, going upwards to form an echo of a smirk.

“You’re not too good y’rself, shank,” Minho says and his smirk grows a little more visible. And in the midst of despair and tiredness, the crazy trails and scorched, battered city, Newt finds himself smiling back. “How ya doin’?”

“Peachy,” Newt shrugs, because his leg doesn’t seem like big of a concern right now. Not after what has happened.

“And your leg?” Minho’s eyes, though, are sharp as always, and apparently so is his thinking, and Newt knows he cannot lie, not to him. The boy raises up a little and turns over to look at Newt’s leg, examining. “I know it was actin’ up back when we were running like scalded cats.”

“’s fine. Nothing I can’t live with.”

“Yeah, well,” Minho exhales deeply and rubs at his forehead, then hisses in pain when his fingers graze over a burn mark on his temple. Newt frowns and reaches over to stop his hand before the bloody idiot does more harm to himself. “Ya need to slow down.”

“I’m slowin’ down right now, Min,” Newt frowns, because the guy has just been struck by a bloody lightning, and yet he’s fussing over something Newt has decided to leave in the past.

“You better,” Minho murmurs while he sits up even more straight, now kind of towering over Newt, who’s half-lying down on his back.

They keep quiet as the rain slowly starts to cease. Newt wishes it would rain more, so they could stay like that longer, not thinking about the journey that awaits them. But it’s not going to happen and nothing is going to be easy; and it should be scary, but when they’re sitting like this, calm and silent, Newt finds out it’s not that thrilling. After all, it’s all they know – the terror and the need to run, it’s all they have ever experienced in the three years of their lives that they can remember.

Newt opens his mouth to suggest they should get back inside and probably try to get some sleep, but Minho moves slightly and places his hand on Newt’s exposed knee. His palm is rough but warm and big and weirdly comforting when Minho starts to rub it over Newt’s skin, trying to work the throbbing out and get rid of the pain. And – it’s not exactly helpful, because there are still needles of pain digging into the lower part of his thigh, but the sensation is soothing and kind of familiar. Newt exhales, content, and he’s even smiling when they go back inside the building some time later, leaning on each other for support.


End file.
